24. Reese
Chapter 24
Reese
September 16th
Viggle Alert: Felix Quits Robyn Hood Amid On-Set Friction
Heather
We have a problem. Ramsey is picking you up, need you in LA stat.
Felix Langford quit Robyn Hood, paid back his director’s fee, and now the movie status is unclear.
I hover outside the production company’s conference room. Inside, it’s like a beehive that’s just been struck with a stick—a table full of people who could end my career with a single decision. Executive producers, a head screenwriter practically vibrating with anxiety, and the production team scrambling to maintain order.
Next to me, Ramsey shifts, the only sign he’s just as uneasy as I am.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was barefoot in Dante’s kitchen, licking powdered sugar off his fingertips. Delusionally letting myself believe that taking a day away from thinking about Felix would do me any good. Now, all my worries and fears have come to life.
I yelled at an Oscar winning director. I became a diva. Threw away the movie of my dreams.
I conceded to almost everything Felix wanted, but slandering me in front of the crew wasn’t professional. He accused me of sleeping my way to my role. It wasn’t right. I stood up for myself. I had every right to.
Maybe it isn’t about you at all , the logical voice in my head suggests. I can’t be the only one who had issues with him. Heather tried to warn me about this back in June. His toxic behavior was unbearable, the belittling comments, the public humiliation, the explosive temper that had the entire crew walking on eggshells. Maybe the executive producers learned about what happened at the lake and let him go.
Or maybe everyone here knows about what I did in the armory with Dante. We violated the insurance policy, for goodness’ sake. That’s such a liability. What was I thinking? All so I could touch his sword?
Someone surely saw us there before he turned off the cameras.
Or at the waterfall.
Or the late-night training sessions, which should be aboveboard but now feel illicit.
I search for him in the room and my eyes land on him fast.
He’s here.
Seated at the table, face unreadable. Next to him, a man I assume is his manager sits pin straight.
I swallow hard, my mind swinging wildly between best- and worst-case scenarios as I push open the conference room door and step inside. The shouting escalates.
“We’re hemorrhaging money by the minute!” someone yells.
“Has anyone spoken to Felix?”
“The press is already sniffing around—”
“Order! We need order in this meeting!” The head executive producer slams his fist on the table, making coffee cups rattle.
I press my palms together, grounding myself, and glance at the ice bucket in the center of the table. I’m tempted to place a cube in my palm, just as Dante showed me.
Four. Seven. Eight.
Ugh, this breathing is no use.
Dante finally looks up. And everything inside me unravels. Whatever happened between us yesterday feels like pretend. I need to focus. No matter how much I want to be next to him.
I settle into the chair next to Heather and Geraldine and whisper, “Status?”
“The studio’s trying to keep the movie alive, but it’s not looking good. Without a director, it’s going to be hard to justify finishing this project,” Heather explains. “Plus, whoever comes in will likely want to refilm, and that’ll mean a month’s worth of footage burnt up.”
It’s not my first project to be cut mid-production, but I’d rather take another dip in ’Gurt’s vat of yogurt than see Robyn Hood die.
“The set’s been a powder keg since the beginning,” someone mutters. “Bringing Felix on was a mistake.”
“We’re in too deep to pull out now,” the producer at the head of the table barks. “The budget we’ve burned through is astronomical. Three hundred crew members’ families depend on this paycheck. Felix paid back his director’s fee, but the sets alone cost an arm, a leg, and a whole fucking cadaver.”
“Shutting down production would be catastrophic,” another executive adds. “If we fail to deliver, no one will trust us with a budget of this size again.”
Their voices swirl around me like a gathering storm. I sink deeper into my chair, feeling as miniscule as I did on my first red carpet, standing there in a thrift store prom dress because I didn’t know any better and didn’t have the right team around me yet.
I didn’t know myself.
Do I know myself now? Do I know how to handle something like this?
Something inside me cracks open beneath the spinning torrent of doubt.
What would Robyn do?
That’s an easy one. She wouldn’t sit here frozen by fear. She’d take charge.
There’s no point in denying it any longer—all the method acting, the bad-girl lessons with Dante, the freedom of yesterday, and the desire to burn, to fuel, to catch fire. I have to become Robyn if I want to save this movie. “Then we find another director.” I project my voice into the room, pushing back my chair and standing.
Silence.
The same crew members who’ve been avoiding my eye on set are seeing me for the first time. I’m done playing small.
I continue, “I can call in favors.” Even as I say it, I know how impossible it sounds. Most directors are booked in advance, but I refuse to give up. “Felix never understood this film. The heart of it, the original script, the true vision. It’s all still here. We need someone who can see it through.”
“Sure, let’s say we find a director.” An EP leans forward, his tone skeptical. “We don’t have the budget to pay them.”
“I do,” I state, confidently. “I want to be a producer.”
The room stills again. Worse this time.
I know the movie has a one-hundred-fifty-million-dollar budget. If the other executive producers don’t pull their funding, I’ll probably need to invest ten, maybe twenty million dollars. It can’t be more than that. Doubts creep into my mind, but I push them away. I can panic later.
Heather adjusts her glasses. “Executive producer.”
There’s a big difference.
A producer handles logistics, and onset operations. An executive producer secures financing, negotiates contracts, and makes the high-level decisions that keep a film alive.
“Yes.” I smile down at Heather, glad to see she has my back. Maybe her warning me back in June against taking this role was because she didn’t want us to be sitting here in this exact position. “I’ll pay the director’s fee,” I continue. “I’ll forgo my salary, except for what’s contractually required to go to my team, and I’ll cover an extra month of filming.”
A producer exhales sharply. “That’s going to be a pretty penny.”
“I stand by what I said.”
And I do. The public assumes we actors are all living glamorous, expensive lives. But thanks to a few successful product launches in my early twenties—Reese’s Peach lip gloss and perfume—and my own frugal nature, I’ve made money, and I’ve been smart with it. Aside from my house in LA, which I bought years ago, and a summer home in Italy, I keep my spending minimal. Most of my designer wardrobe comes from sponsorships, and my glam team’s expenses are covered in my contracts.
It’s time to invest in myself.
“And I want production profit shares as well.” The studio execs, the investors, the all-male crew of executive producers all stare at me. “Or there’s no movie.”
“Reese, if you can fund this film and find a director to start filming immediately, I’d let you tattoo your own name on my fucking ass—pardon the language,” the producer exclaims.
I feel so out of my element, but another idea strikes me—a little farfetched and impossible, but perfect. Dante watches me like I’ve turned into someone else. Maybe I have.
I hope our telepathic conversations work past the comfort of set.
I need a favor.
He raises a brow. Anything.
With that, I don’t hesitate. “We have an in with Amara Bellamy.”
“Miss Sinclair is right.” Dante straightens in his chair. “She’s a longtime friend who owes me a favor, and I have an inkling she’d love to work with Reese.”
The Amara Bellamy. My heart soars with possibility as my nerves dance.
The executives practically pounce on him.
“Can you make it happen?”
“We need this, Dante.”
“Whatever it takes.”
His voice remains steady despite the weight of hundreds of careers hanging on his words. “No promises, but I’ll try.”
This could actually work, or it could all come crashing down around us. Either way, there’s no turning back now.
“If we can get Amara on this project stat, we have a chance to finish filming by Christmas and keep the July release date. I’m willing to put in the hours and extra work to get this done,” I say.
After discussing the logistics of Amara’s potential involvement, the studio’s marketing strategist clears his throat. “Everyone but media damage control, take thirty.”
Dante and I move to leave, but Geraldine cuts in, “You two stay.”
We sink back into our leather seats.
“Even if Amara agrees, we face a press problem. Headlines everywhere have declared the movie dead. Worse, Reese —” Geraldine exhales sharply. “The articles are blaming you because Felix is running his mouth to the press.”
A publicist slides a manila folder toward me, grave-faced as she reveals printouts from entertainment sites.
“Reese Ruins Robyn: Director Felix Langford Says Star’s Demands Sank Production,” screams one headline. Another reads, “New Hollywood Diva Strikes: How Reese Sinclair Torpedoed Robyn Hood .” And perhaps worst of all: “Sources Confirm: Reese Sinclair ‘Impossible to Work With.’”
My stomach plummets as I skim through the quotes. The weight of these accusations pressing down on me like a physical force.
“Do whatever needs to be done, Ger. Put me on the circuit. I can handle it. Interviews, whatever,” I say. “We’ve got to be able to turn this around—”
“Reese, darling.” Geraldine laments, adjusting the skinny scarf draped around her neck. “You know as well as anyone that the world is waiting to tear down a woman at the top. I’m afraid you speaking out will only make it worse.”
My teeth grind together.
She’s right. Men get labeled visionaries and misunderstood geniuses; women become “difficult,” “emotional,” “too much.” If Felix’s story sticks, I won’t just lose this film—I’ll become industry poison.
“But I’ve been up since two working with our data team, and I have a solution,” Geraldine adds, and she tosses the Stone Times onto the table. On the cover: Dante and me laughing at the beach, his hand on my back. She slides a thick binder out of her bag and onto the wooden table. “This is our escape route.”
The exec flips through it. All eyes shift between Dante and me.
“What is this?” My confidence crumbles.
Geraldine folds her arms. “You two are our way out of this mess.” This cannot be going where I think it’s going.“The public devours your chemistry,” Geraldine says plainly.
“The numbers don’t lie,” an executive counters.I pull the binder toward me, staring at the charts that reduce the time I’ve spent with Dante to metrics. “Look at these numbers,” she flips a few pages. “Viggle searches for Robyn Hood skyrocket after you’re spotted together. Your lip gloss sales alone have doubled since that beach photo leaked.”
“But there is no chemistry,” I snap, the lie scorching my tongue. “None.”
Dante flinches. I can’t face him.
“It doesn’t have to be real. You know that better than anyone,” Geraldine concurs. “Felix has the media in his pocket. You and Dante as Hollywood’s newest power couple? That’s our counterstrike. This will drive ticket sales, and you know it.”
“No.” My voice fractures. “Absolutely not.”
But with the weight of my money on the line, my career teetering, and this film nearly crumbling before my eyes, can principles alone survive this fall?